


It Begins Unspoken

by requiembones



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Boys Kissing, Clint and Natasha have a lot of history, Clint may or may not be currently married, Dirty Talk, F/M, Kissing, Lemon, Light BDSM, Multi, No Angst, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Safe Sane and Consensual, Smut, Swearing, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Sex, a tiny bit of plot snuck in, allusions to past dub-con, extremely short exhibitionism/voyeurism, possible infidelity, this may become a series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-24
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2019-03-08 18:07:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13463682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/requiembones/pseuds/requiembones
Summary: Natasha places three fingers against Clint’s collar bone and taps. When he nods, she twists at the waist.Unrepentant and unashamed, Tony is leaning against the doorframe already dressed for the night.“You planning on standing there all night, Stark?”“I was enjoying the view.”





	It Begins Unspoken

**Author's Note:**

> So, um, wow. I'm finally posting something. And it's threesome smut. *hides face*
> 
> Tbh, I'm not entirely happy with the narrative voice, but if I don't post it now, I never will :) Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Apologies for any typos.

Natasha has never been an exhibitionist.

She’s had public sex before, of course, the Red Room did not allow sexual limitations, but it was never something that she enjoyed, so it comes as a surprise when her realization that Tony watching isn’t a turn-off.

Clint sees him too, his eyes flickering in his direction. He squeezes her hips once. Her lead, then.

She sinks onto Clint’s dick.

“God damn it, Tasha,” he groans. The hands on her hips turn into a bruising force. “Remind me why we stopped?”

Natasha leans forward until they’re trading air. They’ve always been complicated, a puzzle even Coulson couldn’t figure out, and there is too much to put into simple words, so she whispers the truth they use as a shield between them. “You got married.”

“Right. Except, I remember you turning down my proposal.”

She smiles against his lips. “I never saw the ring after Coulson took it back.”

It’s easy to pull the memory back into the front of her mind and her lungs ache at the reminder of the arid heat, the constant chocking dust that filled the air. Barton had been sweating hard beneath full tactical gear, an M72 swung over his shoulder, and she, in her evening dress, had been the miserable one. Without missing a beat, Clint pulled out a fat emerald ring and asked, “Think it’s time we got hitched?”

They’d been working together for six months.

Still uncertain about the man before her, she’d stared in silence until Coulson had shown up to lecture Clint about how he wasn’t allowed to snitch jewelry from drug dealer’s safes, didn’t matter if it wouldn’t be missed, and she had let the corner of her lips rise—a crack through her ever-constant mask.

Barton, damn his eyesight, had noticed and winked over Coulson’s shoulder.

Either Clint knows where her mind’s at or he just can’t resist—he bites at her mouth until she’s actively kissing back and then sinks his teeth into her lower lip hard. She moans, the pain a liquid heat spreading from the blunt force and she can’t help but think of the number of times he’s made her bleed.

His hands tug insistently at her waist and he bucks his hips up to get her moving. “C’mon, Tash, time’s running.”

The gala starts in five minutes, but no one will notice if they arrive late. Not if Tony is late, too.

Natasha places three fingers against Clint’s collar bone and taps. When he nods, she twists at the waist.

Unrepentant and unashamed, Tony is leaning against the doorframe already dressed for the night.

Natasha lingers on the tie hanging loosely around his neck, imagining the silk wrapped around her wrists, Tony’s intense focus as he ties a knot with careful, mechanical precision while Clint holds her down. The image makes her want with a suddenness that makes her dizzy, and makes her clench in a way that earns an appreciative hiss from Clint.

“You planning on standing there all night, Stark?” If her voice wavers, just for a moment, she can blame it on the retaliatory flick against her clit.

Tony’s smile is a beautiful, dangerous thing. “I was enjoying the view.”

He unfastens his cufflinks and begins unbuttoning his shirt. His speech, when he starts, is oddly soothing in its lilt, nearly an exercise in diction and tone. “Have you ever seen yourself have sex, Natasha? Watched yourself on top of a man? Artists could paint masterpieces of your back alone.”

He shrugs out of the shirt and hangs it neatly over a chair. Even he won’t risk Pepper’s ire at arriving in wrinkled clothing. He leaves his undershirt on and Natasha can’t decide if it’s a power play or self-consciousness.

“Get yourself a mirror. No, a video camera, Stark T-1002, so you can play back every exquisite twitch of your hips as you move on top him.” He removes his watch and stares her down while he toes off his shoes and socks. “Better yet, film yourself getting screwed. I’ll sit down with you, make sure you watch every single second of you getting fucked from behind like _la piccola puttana_ you are.”

Heat rises up Natasha’s neck in spite of the chill overtaking the rest of her. She sits, trapped in the depth of Tony’s dark eyes. “Mm, you thought I didn’t know why Fury left you on the team roster? His idea, I hope, to sleep with all of us.”

Rough fingers grab her chin. The blue of Clint’s eyes is nearly gone, his pupils straining to catch all the light in the room. If he didn’t know, this wasn’t how she had wanted him to find out.

The moment stretches.

She knows Clint won’t let this go; the questions and the anger, the broken trust, will come later. For now, he only growls, “Get the hell over here, Stark.”

He doesn’t let her go, keeps her head right where it is so he can look at her, his thoughts almost visible in their intensity. The ‘almost’ is the dangerous part. She can’t decipher what he’s thinking, which means he doesn’t want her to know.

There’s a dip in the mattress and a low, “drop the knee, Hawkeye;” her only warning before Tony straddles Clint’s thighs and presses himself against her naked back. He’s already hard against her ass, his clothes abrasive against her over-sensitized skin. When he shifts, she realizes he kept his undershirt on to soften the edge of the reactor, but the metal casing still digs into her vertebrae. Pain ripples down her spine and makes her cunt throb.

Having Clint inside her isn’t enough anymore.

She inhales sharply at the flick of tongue against her ear.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to fuck you?” Tony whispers, kissing down her neck. His beard is softer than she expected, but she still shudders. Could Clint make better use of his hands already?

She tugs her chin out of his grip, but he just slides it back to tangle in her hair. One hard yank and he has her positioned like he wants, neck bared to Tony’s mouth, and then he puts his arms behind his head.

Her glare is met with a sarcastic pout.

“You going to answer me, sweetheart?” Tony asks and she can’t quite remember his question.

Before she can tell him exactly what she thinks about him calling her anything other than her name, he bites the juncture of her neck. He worries her skin between his teeth, sucking and licking in equal measure, and for fuck’s sake, her dress won’t cover that bruise.

This close to Tony, she can smell the cologne Pepper bought him in Europe—ozone and metal and tobacco, sharp and warm in her nose. Reaching backwards, she slides her hands across his hips until she finds two belt loops she can tug her fingers into.

Tony runs a hand down her back, murmuring appreciatively. Then he leans away, putting just enough space between them for his hand to slip over her ass and follow the curves of her body to the juncture of her thighs. The callouses on his fingers are rough enough to catch despite the slick.

“Fuck,” she and Clint hiss at the same time as Tony explores the joining of their bodies.

“Keep doing that, Stark,” Clint breathes, his hips pumping up as his eyes flutter shut. He’s barely moving, not enough leverage with his feet down, but she can still feel the miniscule drag of his cock against her inner walls.

Natasha falls forward, back arched, in a desperate, failing attempt to hide how good it feels for Tony to play with her stretched opening. Moans keep rising up her throat, insistent and pleased. She bites her lip, right on the bruise from where Clint bit her earlier, to keep them safely inside her mouth. Clint fills her so well already, but Tony doesn’t stop. Keeps teasing the taut edge with the tip of his finger.

“Think she could take both of us, Barton?”

Clint’s eyes snap open and looks over her shoulder at Tony. “You want in her ass?”

Okay, no. Natasha sits up. She wasn’t their toy, some blow-up doll they were sharing. “I’m right here. Fully engaged adult. You,” she punches Clint’s pec without any power, “don’t get to decide where he sticks his cock.”

She regrets the outburst immediately, knows what Clint’s going to say before he even opens his mouth, that combination of narrowed eyes and smarmy leer exclusively used when he wants to be a SOB.

A hand pushes her between the shoulder blades until she’s folded back over and Clint can cup the back of her neck. “You’re sitting on my dick, Tasha, so I know you love it. Love hearing us talk about you like you’re not here. So just sit tight, pretty girl, and let us do what we want.”

Tony, the bastard, laughs and wiggles the tip of his finger into her.

Clint pushes up onto his elbow so he can press his face against hers, his lips right next to her ear. “You’re so fucking wet, Tash. I can feel you pulsing around me.” Quieter, “You know we’ll stop.” He pulls back, all the levity replaced by an honest seriousness.

She does know.

“I’d take her ass any day of the week,” Tony answers like no time has passed between Clint asking. “But I actually meant if she could take us both, right here.” That’s her only warning before Tony forces his finger up alongside Clint’s cock and she nearly yells at the burning stretch, tears springing into her eyes. She’s orgasming, her inner walls convulsing around them.

Both of them. Inside her. That shouldn’t make her feel hot all over.

She forces her eyes open when the spasms fade. Clint’s eyes are still scrunched tight, his focus on breathing, and she wonders what it feels like for him, Tony’s finger moving against his cock, forcing her tighter. If it feels as good to him as it does to her.

Tony’s erection nudges against her. Slowly, he works his finger out of her and she doesn’t need to look back to know he’s tasting her.

She presses her face against Clint’s chest. He’s warm and sweaty against her forehead but he smells safe and familiar. She can feel when he takes his first deep, shuddering breath. “Yeah, ok,” he says, absent-mindedly pushing her hair out of her face. “We are definitely doing that. Lube?”

“Shockingly, I don’t have any.” Tony sounds disappointed and faintly distracted as he runs his hands up her back and down her ribcage. “Also, if we take too long, Pepper may come looking for me.”

“Another time then.” Clint smacks her ass. “Natasha, off. Hands and knees.”

She snarls at him because she’s not a dog (even if she’s sometimes a bitch), but her thighs are starting to cramp, so she switches positions without more of a fight. This is also familiar, she knows what’s going to happen, and that calms the pounding of her heart.

There’s the slither of fabric as Tony chucks his pants and the boys reposition. Clint’s cock is eagerly bumping up against her before Tony even settles in front of her, legs spread. The bulge in his briefs already has a wet stain at the tip.

“Condom?” he asks, running his fingers across her cheekbones, down her jaw. He looks hungry and desperate.

Clint’s already pushing in, one long slow stroke despite her being ready and open. “Seriously?” he pants, “What kind of boy scout are you?”

“The unprepared kind, obviously.” His thumb pushes between her lips.

Natasha places her tongue against the pad of his finger, tastes salt and clean skin, and considers. The taste of latex is one she would prefer to avoid, hates it more than she minds the taste of someone clean. He probably took a shower not even an hour ago. She nips at his thumb and tilts her head, contemplating the other kind of clean. It would be a surprise if he didn’t get tested frequently. “Skip it?”

His eyes light up with immediate interest.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Clint says, rocking in and out with small movements, pushing the head of his cock over her g-spot repetitively. “There’s no way you don’t have something that is slowly making your dick fall off.”

“I appreciate your concern in my anatomy, Barton.” Tony rolls his eyes. “I’m careful. And clean.”

The chance that Stark would lie, especially to her, are slim enough that she disregards the possibility.

She nods, ready to keep going. Warmth is already pooling in her belly again, Clint’s hand starting to make its way to her clit, and Tony wasn’t joking when he said Pepper, or Steve, would come looking if they didn’t show up soon.

“You can put your hands in my hair,” she decides, leaning down lick the top of Stark’s happy trail. “But if you pull too hard, I will end you.”

“Don’t listen to her, she loves it.”

She might actually murder Barton one of these days. Wait until she tells Stark all of _his_ secret turn-ons.

Tony doesn’t waste another second, guiding himself out of his underwear and settling the waistband beneath his balls. He’s well groomed, long and lean, and gentle when he places his hands in her hair and tugs her down.

It’s a relief every time she blows someone like Tony and Clint, guys who take care of hygiene and are polite enough not to jam their penises down her throat. The faint fear that she’ll pull down a man’s pants and be confronted with another man like Smyrnoi or Andriiets is always present.

This is much better.

When she’s close enough, Tony’s hands stay heavy on the back of her head but no longer push, and she licks the tip of his cock where pre-come has already beaded. She lets it sit on her tongue for a short moment. Salty and bitter. Better than she’d hoped for. She could live with it.

She kisses her way down to the base and resigns herself to a messy face. She would make both of them wait while she redid her make-up.

Clint, impatient, picks up the pace, unsteadying her.

Ladies and gentlemen, this isn’t going to be the most easily performed blow job in the world, she thinks wryly, already wobbly with pleasure.

She flushes when Tony seems to realize her dilemma, wrapping one of his own hands around the base of his cock to hold himself steady. With the hand still tangled in her hair, he tugs her forward again. “Running out of time, Romanov.”

“Fuck you.” She goes down on him before he can respond, careful with her teeth because she’s not sure what Stark’s into.

It’s been awhile since she’s had cock in her mouth and she goes slow, letting sense memory take over. He tastes faintly like soap and sweat, her lips aren’t burning from the stretch, and he takes her directions over Clint’s, letting her set the pace of her bobs. She goes down till her lips are pressed against his hand, grateful that he’s not angling for her to take him down her throat.

Going back up, she lets spit collect in the corners of her mouth and drools a little down his dick. His fingers squeeze reflexively, her scalp shivers, but it feels good, so good, so she doesn’t tell him to stop. Instead she keeps moving, this time letting her tongue in on the action, tracing veins and dancing patterns on his shaft.

Once Clint finds a tempo, it’s easy for her to time it together. Up and back, forward and down. Tony’s hand means she doesn’t have to worry about going too far and choking herself, and soon details begin to fuzz out as she concentrates on the pleasure blooming in her pelvis.

She’s so focused internally, she misses Clint closing the final distance until he’s there, two fingers pressing hard against her clit, sparking pain-pleasure over her entire body.

The moan slips out before she can stop it, and Tony swears as it vibrates past his cock to emerge strangled and garbled. Clint keeps rubbing tight circles around her hard nub and she’s tightening around him until he loses his rhythm, pushing into her with a desperate groan as he comes, pulsing inside her.

He keeps moving his hips, small little circles she knows he’s helpless to resist, and he leans down, blanketing her with his chest and pressing kisses across the expanse of her back. He doesn’t stop kneading her clit either, just the way she likes it, and she trembles hard enough that she has to push herself off Tony to rest her head on his thigh instead.

Her mouth is slick with spit and pre-come, wet all the way to her chin, but she can’t get her arm to cooperate, to wipe it all off. She’s stuck where she is on the precipice, one _something_ away from orgasm, but it only builds and builds until, to her distant horror, she’s whispering, “Please, please, please,” endlessly into Tony’s thigh.

As if it’s happening miles away and not right in front of her face, she realizes Tony is jacking himself off, his mouth running like an engine.

“ _Christ_ , look at you. Begging. Fucking hot. I need you in my bed, all to myself, at least once. I would make you scream until you went hoarse. _God_ , I should tie you up, make Barton watch, while I take you again and again, and I wouldn’t, _shit,_ wouldn’t touch you anywhere else until you’re moaning into the pillows and Clin—Barton, Hawkeye, _whatever his stupid fucking name is_ , can’t resist joining and I’d share again, because you fucking _love_ it. We would make so much noise, the others would come and investigate and they’d see you falling apart into pieces underneath us—”

That’s the last she hears, thunder rolling over her ears as her vision whites out. The adrenaline from the thought of Rogers and Banner or Thor seeing her like this, humiliated, pushes her over the edge and she is falling, shaking, burning from the inside out.

 

| |

 

When she evens out again, tingling and relaxed, she keeps her eyes firmly shut, nervous for the first time in years over what she’ll see. Clint, angry that she’d orgasmed hard because of Stark, or disgusted at how she responded to the thought of her own humiliation. Tony, overly self-important, ready to lord over her that he had made the Black Widow come.

More of the world starts to filter in. The faint smell of chlorine; Tony came too.

There’s a bad ache growing between her thighs and she realizes Clint still has his fingers moving against her, gently, but it’s too much and she bats his hand away weakly, “stop.”

He does, immediately, and then he’s settling behind her where she’s already laid out on the bed, throwing one arm around her waist. “Hey, beautiful,” he whispers. “Not to rush you, but we still need to make an appearance at this stupid event.”

Tony laughs and it surprises her into opening her eyes.

He’s slumped, loose-limbed and still, not fidgeting for the first time Natasha can think of. His undershirt is wet with sweat over his abs and it must be growing cold, but if he notices, he ignores it. His smile is brilliant when he sees her looking, the constant tension around his eyes replaced with laugh lines.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he mimics as he slides down to rest beside her.

Clint squawks into the back of her neck, something about competition and compliments, but he’s easy to ignore.

“Hey,” she says back, licking her lips because her mouth is suddenly dry.

Tony leans in. “Hey, Barton, can I kiss your girl?”

“Only if I get to watch.” He props himself up on an elbow.

Tony dips in, capturing her upper lip between his, slow and careful, like he’s not sure if she’ll let him do it now or ever again, so he better memorize the experience. When he moves back, she follows, humming her acceptance until he’s kissing her again, sweeter than she ever thought he would be capable of.

“Gala,” he says, breath fanning across her face. “We should,” he nips her bottom lip, “definitely go to that.” His tongue runs across the sting and he’s deepening the kiss.

Then Clint’s crowding between them, forcing them to part, and she expects him to lean in towards her, is surprised when he turns towards Tony, kissing him instead.

She’s always known—always _thought_ —that Clint didn’t have any personal interest in men. He’s never been homophobic, with others or himself, but the one time she’d seen him kiss a man in some drunken SHIELD truth or dare game during a lock-down, it had been perfunctory, a spousal ‘see you, honey’ kind of kiss.

When she’d asked him about it, later and sober, he’d shrugged. “I’ll do it if I have to, but I don’t go looking for it. It doesn’t bother me enough to raise a fuss refusing.” Seconds later, he rolled over in bed and mouthed at her breasts. “Prefer these.”

Now she wonders if the sex had been a distraction. Tilting her head, she rejects the notion. Clint and gay, or Clint and bi, don’t fit together in her head. Clint as a one on the Kinsey scale does.

Their kiss is shy and exploratory, Tony following Clint’s lead, not pressing for more. Natasha holds her breath, finds herself hoping, as Clint leans further in, that he doesn’t hate the experience, that he’ll want to do it again—a phone ringing shatters the moment.

Tony jerks back, nearly falling off the bed in his scramble to grab his cell. He presses answer with a wince. “Pepper Potts, the most amazing CEO on the East Coast. What can I do for you?”

Clint falls back behind her with a whoosh of an exhale, then proceeds to rub his mouth against her shoulder.

Child.

“No, I wasn’t in the lab. Or the workshop. I haven’t been in there all da—yes, Bruce can verify. I’m on my way, right now. I’m almost dressed and everything. Ciao!” He jabs at the end button, Pepper still talking on the other end, and tosses it onto the bedspread. “Alright, kids, it’s party time.”

 

| |

 

Later, when she and Clint finally make it to their assigned table, Rogers takes a look at her and frowns. “Are you okay?” he asks, and maybe she still looks a little too fucked out to be in polite company.

The tone of worry in Steve’s voice makes Bruce turn. He catches the flush on her cheeks and chest, the blooming bruise on her neck, and glancing at Clint, his pleased smile, the loose roll of his hips as he walks to his seat. Miserably failing, Bruce tries to straighten his amused smile with a cough. “I think she’s fine, Captain.”

“Are you sure? She looks dazed,” Steve says.

Tony pops up behind him, smug superiority rolling off him in waves. His whole act is so over-the-top Natasha can’t dredge up any annoyance. He winks at her lasciviously. “I hope she does, Rogers. I didn’t come late to this thing for nothing.”

Bruce’s eyebrows jump up; his gaze flickers between everyone at the table, reassessing.

“Pepper looks ready to yell and she’s heading this way, Stark,” Clint warns, waving cheekily at the approaching woman.

Steve looks faintly confused and definitely embarrassed, his cheeks turning a soft pink, but also as if he’s steeling himself up for a fight. “Stark, you can’t—”

Whatever he’s about to say is lost because Tony is already dancing away. “Hasta la vista, babies, I’m avoiding Pepper for at least another hour.”

His fingers drift across the back of Natasha’s neck as he moves away.

She shivers. Meets Clint’s gaze from across the table.

He lifts an eyebrow.

Pretending to think for a moment, she glances at Rogers—forehead still furrowed—and Banner—quietly entertained. Behind her, Tony is telling a loud story about a pineapple and she does _not_ want to know.

She looks back at Clint. Nods.

His smile shines like the sun.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to hear your thoughts. Thanks for reading!


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